


Falling Out of Love

by laleia



Category: Harry Potter - Rowling
Genre: F/M, Female POV on M/M Relationship, M/M, Not Epilogue Compliant
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-03-23
Updated: 2010-03-23
Packaged: 2017-10-08 06:43:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,457
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/73812
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/laleia/pseuds/laleia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ginny Weasley is not having a good month, not at all.  It started when she walked in on her fiancé with another man ... Harry/Draco, past Harry/Ginny</p>
            </blockquote>





	Falling Out of Love

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Untitled](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/2836) by A. Lee. 



_December 1st_

            The day I walked in on my fiancé being fucked in the arse by Draco Malfoy, I thought I was surely dreaming.  The man I was to marry in a month, the man I considered the love of my life, the golden boy of the wizarding world … was actually cheating on me!  With another man, no less.  With _Draco Malfoy_!

            Harry didn’t notice as I stood there, shell-shocked.  He was too busy panting at Malfoy to go “Harder!” and “Faster!”  But though _Harry_ didn’t see me, Malfoy certainly did.  We locked eyes as I opened the door, and I watched the expression in his eyes go from bewildered to alarmed to _smug_. 

            I’ll be damned if he didn’t just stand there smirking, mocking me for being the victim.

            In the time it took them both to climax (very loudly and enthusiastically), I managed to recover my wits and begin vocally expressing my displeasure.

            Words were exchanged, all of them unkind.  Harry started out groveling and quite apologetic, but I wasn’t having any of that bullshit.  His excuses about being confused, about not wanting to tell me because he hadn’t wanted to hurt me, about having my best interests at heart, they only grated on my nerves.  _Especially_ because Malfoy continued to stand there, not even bothering to cover up his naked glory, _smirking_ the whole goddamned time.

            “So when had you _planned_ on telling me?” I demanded.  (Well, shrieked, if we’re being honest.)  “On our _wedding_ night?”

            “I dunno,” he shrugged in that dopey way he has where he’s trying to look innocent.  “I hadn’t really thought that far.”

            “Well _that_ much is obvious!” I yelled.  It rather degenerated from there. 

            Harry has too short a temper, a trait I was banking on – it’s hard to have a proper row when the he keeps on apologizing.  Soon enough, I had goaded him into screaming back in full capslock mode.  His excuses turned into accusations – I was a frigid, insensitive bitch, I’d never gotten past my hero-worship of him, I didn’t understand him the way “Draco” did, _I’d_ been the one to drive him to another man’s bed so _I_ was the one at fault because, (and this was the last straw) apparently _I_ was bad in bed.  Which, trust me, was rich coming from _him_.

            (Don’t worry – I didn’t hold back either when it came to cruel and unfounded accusations, but we needn't go into that.)

            Throughout this whole kerfluffle, Malfoy continued lounging naked against the table with that insufferable _smirk_ on his face, a smirk I took vicious pleasure in wiping off when I ended the argument by furiously casting a hex at him and Harry each before storming off.

            What I needed was to sit down and have a good cry with someone, but if I expected comfort from either friends or family, I was sorely disappointed.  Luna was in Australia on her annual expedition to spot the Nargleblaster (or something) and my other good girlfriend was Hermione, who was very ... well, was very Hermione about it all.  She's good to have around when you need advice but she was far too levelheaded and too good a friend of Harry's to just listen and console me until my temper calmed.  Instead, while I ranted at her, Hermione kept on interjecting with reasonable responses like “Don’t be silly, I’m sure Malfoy wasn’t smirking the _whole_ time,” or “You know Harry didn’t mean that.  He was just upset.”  Who wants someone being all _rational_ when all you really want to do is bitch about your ex?

            As for my brother, not _only_ did he take Harry’s side over mine (so much for blood being thicker than water), it turned out he’d _known_ Harry and Malfoy were fucking and he hadn’t told me.  He tried to bluster his way through an explanation for that one, but his excuses were as inane as Harry’s.  Why did they both think keeping me in the dark was _protecting_ me?  (This ended up being one of the very few instances having a too-rational confidante ended up an advantage - as soon as Ron mentioned this reasoning in Hermione's hearing, she tore him a new one and was still at him about it when I left.)

            I fled to Mum’s next, because I thought if anyone could console me it’d be her.  I was wrong.

            After feeding me a plate of homemade cookies and listening to me cry my eyes out, she patted me on the head and said, “Well at least you found out _before_ the wedding and not after” and then refused to discuss the issue further.  She wouldn’t let me bring Harry’s name up again.  Each time I tried to criticize him, she’d say something like “Well, the poor child doesn’t have any parents.  It’s no surprise.”  (As if _that_ was a reasonable explanation for why someone might betray the presumed love of their life with their archnemesis.)

            It was clear to me I’d find no solace there so I returned home to sleep off my anger in case, like Mum suggested, “Things would seem better in the morning.”

            Spoiler alert:  they didn’t.

 

_December 2nd_

            Next morning I called in sick to work and spent the entire day in pyjamas with some of Fortescue’s finest, trying to console myself with the classics: chocolate chip cookie dough and sad love songs.  By that point, the anger had faded until tears were all I had left.  This was the man I’d intended to spend the rest of my life with, and apparently I hadn’t known him as well as I’d thought.

            I reviewed every conversation we’d had over the past year, every interaction.  Every time we had sex, every time Malfoy came up in conversation, every time we talked about our lives together.  Had he ever really loved me?  When had things gone so terribly wrong?  How had I missed it?  Just thinking about it made me more depressed.

            Harry firecalled five times, and Owled me three more messages, but I set the fireplace to block his magical signature and sent each owl back with letters unread and progressively vitriolic messages attached, even going so far as to include a curse with the last one.

            (I felt bad afterwards, because sending envelopes with curses inside was going a bit far, as well as being very illegal, and it would be awful if I were brought in by the Aurors for questioning simply because I couldn’t resist the temptation to hex boils in all sorts of painful and uncomfortable places.)

            I tried listening to the radio for diversion, which only worked until the talk show hosts started talking about the “latest rumors that golden boy Harry Potter’s engagement had been _dissolved_, for some reason.”  As they speculated on increasingly wild and tongue-in-cheek motivations, I changed the channel only to hear another talk show host drop the rumor that Harry Potter was –_gasp_– gay!  Their gossipmongering and scandalized tones only served to provoke me into blasting the radio with a well-aimed _Reducto_.

            Hermione dropped by “spontaneously” around dinnertime with casserole to see how I was doing, but it was easy to see through her ruse.  (For one, Hermione has no clue how to make casserole – the spinach and rutabaga concoction was my mum’s specialty.)  She had obviously been volunteered to check up on me, and there was a look of dismay on her face as she surveyed my mess of a room, littered with containers of melted ice cream, wads of used tissues and viscous residue from some of my more vicious curses.

            She didn’t judge (at least, not out loud), for which I was grateful.  Instead, she sighed and put my ice cream away, and helped straighten up the room with a few flicks of her wand before settling down to watch some sort of humorous Muggle comedy with me on the magic-powered TeeVee she’d gotten me for Christmas two years ago.

 

_December 3rd_

            A day of moping was all I’d allow myself, I resolved.  I came into work as usual the following day, too preoccupied with trying to lose myself in paperwork to notice the pointing and whispering until lunch break.  That’s when Susan kindly pulled me aside to show me the _Witch Weekly_ headlines:  “Lurid Affair Between Malfoy Mogul and Boy-Who-Lived: Is Ginny Weasley the Girl-Who-Turned-Harry-Queer?”

            Whereas the first half of my day had been spent drowning myself in work, the second was spent hyper-aware of the pointing figures, the whispers, the way conversations stopped whenever I came into the room.  I bore it all as best as I could up until my boss stopped by to “check in and see how you were holding up, under the circumstances” with his customary patronizing smile.

            At that point, I may or may not have had a breakdown in which I managed to offend everyone in earshot before I subsequently quit.  I’m not really sure, though – my memories of the next 2.4 hours are a bit hazy.  All I know is I somehow ended up Apparating back to my apartment with all of my things and a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach that I needed a new job.

            This was rapidly turning into the worst week of my life.

            (Okay, that’s not true.  The week Harry broke up with me because he was about to embark on a life-threatening journey to defeat an archvillain was pretty bad, the week my period came late and I thought the Contraceptus had failed me was worse, and any given week of my Sixth Year at Hogwarts made this week pale in comparison, but when your life is so bad you need to remind yourself of when you were _tortured on a regular basis_ to make yourself feel better, that’s really saying something …)

            It probably won’t surprise you to find out I dug out the Firewhiskey that night and forwent Ice Cream Therapy for Getting Blackout Drunk Therapy.

 

_December 4th_

            The following day, through my pounding hangover, it occurred to me that it would only be good manners to officially cancel the wedding instead of relying on the guests to assume from gossip mag headlines that the wedding was probably a no-go.  As my head was rather killing me and I had yet to drink my morning coffee, the cancellation notification itself was terse (one might say bitchy) and may or may not have gone something like:

_Dear Friend or Family Member:_

_            As you may have guessed, Harry Potter is a cheating bastard and the wedding is off.  Thank you for your RSVP, I’ll make sure to invite you to my next wedding if I ever regain my faith in men.  Probably not._

_Ginny_

            Mum firecalled as soon she received hers, but I pretended I wasn’t home.  Meanwhile, there were florists and caterers to call about cancellations and refunds.  

            “And will that refund be transferred to your account or to Mr. Potter’s?” the receptionist at Morgause’s tactfully inquired.

            I didn’t feel even a twinge of guilt as I gave her my account number.  Sure, it had been Harry’s money paying for the wedding (in the wizarding world, the man pays as a modern-day remnant of the bride-price), but it served him right for cheating on me.  Most historical documents indicate scorned witches used to eviscerate the men that betrayed them – this was nothing in comparison. 

            The day was depressing (so many people pretending to be sickly-sweet when I knew they were laughing on the inside) yet satisfying (I didn’t bother blunting my tongue as I told each well-wisher exactly where they could shove their false apologies and simpering pity), but on the whole just made me want to drink even more.  I restrained the urge, and Floo’d to Bill’s for dinner.

            Ostensibly, the dinner invitation was spontaneous on his part, but I’m sure Mum put him up to it.  I didn’t blame my family for wanting to check in with me, though, and I needed to pick Bill’s brain anyways for some financial advice and insight into the wizarding job market (because one thing I knew was how difficult it would be for someone with little to no experience beyond fluff pieces—like me—to get anything resembling a decent job at a decent newspaper in this economy).

            Halfway through the soup course (of course dinner with Fleur could never be simple – who ever heard of having a sit-down _family_ dinner with multiple courses?), Fleur let slip that Harry’s invitation to the annual Weasley Christmas Dinner had not been rescinded.  Which, okay, he’s been at every Christmas Dinner since before we started going out, but considering the _Christmas Dinner_ was originally to have been our _wedding rehearsal dinner_, I really didn't think he would have the gall to show up.

            Look, I understand that Harry has no real family beside mine to spend Christmas with.  But he _cheated_ on me and now he was planning on showing up to a dinner that was originally supposed to _celebrate our fucking relationship._ I hope you see why I was so mad.  Unfortunately, that wasn't even the worst of it.  _That _I might have lived with.  (Well, maybe I wouldn’t have lived with it _gracefully_, but I could have lived with it _eventually_.)

            What I _couldn’t_ believe was that my mother had invited _Malfoy_ to the dinner as well.

            Suffice to say, I didn’t make it through the soup course before Floo’ing to Mum’s and demanding an explanation.

            “Harry has no other family, dear.  And he really needs us to support him and his lifestyle choices in his time of need.  Try some of the pie.”

            Okay, seriously?  Maybe he needs people to support him in his “lifestyle choice” of being_ gay. _But support for being a_ backstabbing poster boy for infidelity?_

            I tried to point out that so far, _every_ member of my family seemed on Harry’s side and not mine, but she wasn’t having it.  And I couldn’t sustain my outrage about including Harry – even furious at Harry I knew intellectually that I was lucky to have a family and I couldn’t deny him mine when he didn’t have his own.  Protesting the inclusion of _Malfoy_, though, that I did in _spades_.

            Mum just sighed and said, “We’ll see how he holds up.  Have a cake – is it too sweet?”  (The look in her eyes as she said "We'll see how he holds up" completely contradicted her matter-of-fact tone. I knew from experience "We'll see how he/she holds up" generally prefaced a hellacious night of Mum interrogating anyone considering entering the Weasley clan and setting them at menial tasks in a ploy to test their mettle, an experience Harry had dubbed the Gauntlet back when we were still in a relationship and laughed over things like this, back before he _cheated on me, the fucking traitor._ Of course, Harry had never had to run the Gauntlet himself, as he'd always been such a part of the family, which I realized now was clearly a _mistake_ because if the Gauntlet had scared him off, I wouldn't be in the position I was now, that is to say the woman scorned.)

            I was not placated by Mum's words, however, even if they were the closest she would ever get to promising me retribution. Passive-aggressive retribution via Mum was not the closure I was looking for, nor would it be anywhere near as satisfying as slugging Harry in the face, which was what I _really_ wanted to do.

 

_December 5th_

            In any case, that is how I ended up with no job (thus no money to buy anyone gifts) and no Christmas plans (because there was no _fucking_ way I was spending Christmas across the table from my ex-fiancé and his _fucktoy_ and maintain any semblance of civility.)

            It wasn’t like I had other friends to hang out with for Christmas because Hermione?  Would be at the Christmas dinner.  Luna?  Was also going to be there for her first Christmas as Fred’s plus-one.  (I would be more worried for her if she hadn’t already gone last Christmas as _George’s_ girlfriend.  Don’t ask me how that works, I decided long ago I would not give it any more thought than strictly necessary because the _one_ time I allowed myself to wonder whether she had sex with them one at a time or both at once, I was rewarded with mental images that have left me mentally scarred for _life_.)

            In a fit of anger, I took every one of Harry’s things and set them on fire.  Lucky Quidditch socks?  Ashes.  Old love letters?  Gone.  Spare clothes?  All burnt up.  I intended to symbolically burn all traces of Harry out of my life, and took rather vindictive satisfaction in watching everything go up in green flames.

            (Well, not everything.  There was one framed dog-eared photo of his parents that he had given me last year when he’d proposed – saying something about how he hoped our love would be as strong as his parents and that we could be as they might have been if they’d have the opportunity to live.  This I didn’t have the heart to destroy, knowing how little he had remaining of his parents.  I carefully wrapped it up, instead, and sent it to him by owl.)

            I steadily drank more and more alcohol during the course of the cleansing, and barely refrained from pouring my leftover alcohol onto the fire, only by dint of there not being any alcohol left.

            As I watched the flames in my fireplace die into embers, I wondered dispassionately if the feeling of betrayal would ever cool like the fire had, if our love that had burned so brightly would flame out equally quickly.

            (Yes, I know I was being disgustingly maudlin … blame it on the alcohol.)

 

_December 6th\- 13th_

            Considering I’d burned through my personal stash of alcohol in two days, I may or may not have spent the next week and a half getting drunk in the bar down the street.  My days passed the same way:  mornings futilely searching for jobs despite a killer hangover, evenings at the bar drinking steadily until blacked out.  Rinse, lather, repeat.

            I only ever made it home safely because one of my brothers (I never found out which one) had the foresight to slip the bartender a few extra Galleons to see to it that I didn't end up dead or in Azkaban.  Poor guy ended up walking my drunk self back to my apartment after closing every night, convincing me to unlock the door, depositing me on the bed, and leaving.  He should probably be canonized – I’m generally known to be a belligerent drunk.

            I decided to stop the vicious cycle around when some asshole tried to proposition me while I was nursing my fourth glass of Mermaids’ Tears (two parts Firewhiskey, one part rum, one part fermented grapefruit – said to be so strong it brings tears to mermaids’ eyes).  Before the bartender could throw the man out, I was trying to castrate the man with my wand.  Fortunately, I was drunk and did not succeed in doing anything more than turn his balls blue (literally) and was _not_ sent off to Azkaban, but I did decide to leave off the getting drunk bit for a while.

 

_December 14th_

            About that time, Luna got back from her trip to Australia, so I Floo’d to her place only to come face-to-face with Fred and George.  They both told me they were taking _my_ side in this matter (the first ones to do so as Bill had stuck fast to neutrality, Percy had just _tsk_ed and taken Harry’s side and _obviously_ Ron would be on Harry’s side; Charlie's boyfriend told me Charlie was really more on my side, but since he wasn't planning on ditching Christmas dinner for my sake, I felt it didn't count), then offered to beat Harry up for me if I wanted.

            (When I took them up on the offer, they sheepishly laughed.

            “Our primary shareholder, you know,” Fred began.

            “-and it wouldn’t look good,” George finished.)

            I irritably brushed past them and had a good long cry with Luna, who was very sympathetic when she wasn’t going on about the Three-Eyed Impesti my tears were sure to attract.  She didn’t find it necessary to make a single rational suggestion throughout my rant about everything that was going wrong with my life, just heard me out and then very calmly said, “And what are you going to do now?” when I was done.

            That gave me pause.  “Get … drunk?” I ventured, trying to get a laugh out of her.

            Luna gave me a look, and I sighed.

            “I hadn’t really thought that far,” I admitted.  “I suppose I need a new job, a new boyfriend, and a new life.”

            Luna gave me another look.  For a girl whose head was so often in the clouds, her looks could send you crashing down to Earth. “Well, let’s start with that first thing.  What kind of new job?  You never liked working in sensationalistic journalism,” she said patiently.  “Maybe this is a chance to try something new?”

            “It may not have been my dream job, but it was a salary,” I replied, stung.  “Money’s important.  It can’t buy you _everything_, but you also can’t live without it.” 

            I knew this more than anyone else.  I grew up in a household where my parents ended up pursuing their dreams (Muggles being my father’s dream and a large family being my mother’s), and which meant too many mouths to feed and not enough money to go around.  There had been a lot of love, but love sometimes didn’t feel like enough when I had to wear my brothers’ hand-me-downs to school because we didn’t have enough money to buy new things for me.

            I knew from the look on Luna’s face she disagreed but knew not to push the issue.  “I’m not suggesting you completely change the direction of your career, but perhaps nudge it in a direction you don’t hate?”

            “What do you suggest, Luna?  The mainstream papers aren’t really hiring in this economy.”

            “You wouldn’t be happy at a mainstream paper anyways; too much politics.”

            I snorted agreement.

            “Perhaps,” Luna said, and then, “Perhaps you’d like a job at the Quibbler?”

            “No, Luna, I couldn’t impose on you like that,” I said immediately.

            “I know you don’t think the Quibbler is the kind of serious journalism you want, but you have to admit it’s more respectable than your old job.”  I couldn’t help but make a face at her, conceding the point.  “I’d pay you a competitive salary, you can write whatever you like, and reasonable expenses would be covered.”

            “I can’t take advantage of you like that,” I said.  “You know that’s more than I’m worth.  I don’t need your charity.”  The Quibbler wasn’t a big enough company it could afford to hire additional employees, much less give those additional employees benefits like covering their expenses.

            “Oh, _I_ don’t think it’s too much.  You’d be my only employee.  You deserve to be pampered.”

            I argued with Luna some more, because one thing my parents had hammered to my head growing up had been that even if you didn’t have money, you could still have pride – and accepting charity from a friend was a bit too much of a blow to my dignity.  I finally talked her into hiring me freelance, paying me on a wordcount, per-article basis for six months with the potential for a salaried position depending on whether there'd be increases in readership after I joined the staff.

            We celebrated sealing the deal with hot chocolates.  After I'd finished the last drop of my hot chocolate, I sighed and said, "I suppose that's the new job squared away."

            “Now for the ‘new boyfriend’ part.”

            I knew where she was going with this.  Mum had already dropped hints, to my irritation.  “It’s sweet of you to suggest setting me up on dates,” I said, “but I don’t think I’m ready yet.”  Though really it was less that I wasn’t ready, and more that I was pretty sure Luna’s idea of a suitable wizard wouldn’t match mine.

            “Oh, I agree that you’re not ready yet,” she said.

            “No, really, I- wait, what?”

            “Ginny, you’ve been pining over Harry for, what, most of your life?  Even your relationships with other people were fleeting distractions at best.  I think you should take this time to seriously consider whether you should pursue another relationship at this stage or whether you should focus on yourself for a while.”

            “What are you on about?” I asked.

            “Ginny, I’ve known you for a really long time, right?” she said patiently.

            “Since we were three,” I agreed.

            “And since were three, you have always told me that you were going to marry Harry Potter one day, right?”

            “I see where you’re going with this,” I said, eyes narrowed.  “Our relationship wasn't aggrandized hero-worship.  I _love_ Harry.  Loved.”  If only it were that easy, if I could just tell myself that I didn’t love him anymore and have it be true.

            “No, I know.  I know that more than anyone else,” Luna said.  “Well, except Hermione.  I was there. I watched as the ‘hero-worship’ turned into love.  But that love has been there for a very long time, Ginny – are you really sure you’re over him?”

            “I’m over him,” I insisted.  “He’s a cheating asshole, and I’m never going to speak to him again, and I have no feelings for him _what_soever anymore.”

            “And that’s why you’ve been consuming your own weight in alcohol the last few nights, is it?” Luna said evenly.

            “That’s not the point,” I said loudly.  “I just need to get back on the bicycle.  Find someone else.”

            “Someone else to transfer your love to?” Luna asked.  “_That_’ll end well.”

            “You’re starting to sound like Hermione,” I scowled, knowing Luna would take it for the insult I intended.

            Luna took the comment in stride.  “Ginny, you’ve been in a relationship in one form or another since you were fourteen.  And six of those years were spent in a relationship with _one_ man you were going to devote your _entire_ life to.  You loved Harry with all of your heart, Ginny, and some part of you still does.”

            I didn’t deny that truth.

            “Work will take your mind off things, but it’s a bandage, not a solution.”  Luna looked me in the eyes.  “It’s in your best interests that I’m suggesting you put a moratorium on sex and relationships, a moratorium on boys—_and girls_—until you’re over Harry.”

            If _Luna_ was being serious, then she was right.  I grudgingly agreed.

            “Right!” Luna said cheerily.  “Now let’s talk about your first article …”

 

_December 16th_

            Next day, I started my first day of “work” when I came in the office and toured the Quibbler premises.  I spoke at great length with Mr. Lovegood about the production schedule for the Quibbler, about the makeup of its general readers, of the upcoming edition, and so on.  I was on my very best professional behavior even though he’d probably seen me in my nappies.  After, I had tea with Luna as I bounced ideas off her as to what might and might not make an appropriate article.

            The three hours we spent brainstorming about what the Quibbler might write about (and where I reluctantly agreed to accept there was no proof Nargles _didn’t_ exist) was the first three-hour period in 16 days in which I didn’t think about Harry.

 

_December 17th-19th_

            Having purpose did cheer me up somewhat.  Instead of dwelling on my misery, I focused on investigating the new Muggle-Magic interaction policies being considered by the Ministry as well as drafted up preliminary plans for an edition themed around the impact of the War.  Throwing myself into meaty topics requiring a lot of planning and research meant I didn’t have much tie to give thought to anything else.

            It was awkward, granted, trying to interview Ministry politicians that greeted me with, “Ginny!  So good to see you!  So sorry about the news.”  I learned to capitalize on the sympathy.  (A tactic I favored was “Yes, I know.  I’ve been quite heartbroken by it all.  Would you like to buy me lunch to cheer me up?” followed by “I’d much rather talk about something cheerier.  Do you have any thoughts on the new Muggle-Magic legislation?”)

            It helped that most of the up-and-up politicians knew me personally from some experience or another during the War, and my shrug and rueful smile as I confessed to taking on a temporary job with the Quibbler tended to disarm them completely.  Nobody ever expected  much from the Quibbler.

            The more I played on my role as Spurned Woman to get those interviews, the more comfortable with it I became.  Although I initially hated bringing the matter up, I grew accustomed to briefly sketching the reasons for Harry’s and my breakup without descending into vitriolic hate.  By the end of the third day, I could even say Harry’s name without appending “the cheating bastard” each time, not to mention enough material for the exposé of a lifetime.

 

_December 20th_

            My first serious article was submitted on the 20th, and published on the 21st.  With the money from my first paycheck, I took Luna and Hermione out to drink at the bar down the street from my place.  While the night started out convivial, I was quickly reminded of why I had gotten drunk before.  The patrons were _whispering_ and pointing at me and I could hear snatches of conversation like,

            “-reducing the number of eligible wizards one by one-” (direct quote from _Witch Weekly_)

            “-with Draco _Malfoy_-”

            “-says she’s bad in _bed_-”

            And so on and so forth.

            I exercised enormous willpower, however, and neither got drunk nor committed homicide.  (It was a near thing, really.)  Luna, Hermione and I shared some laughs and some drinks, and I returned to my apartment in the wee hours.

            That night, as I lay in bed still elated from the success of my first serious article and giddy with alcohol from a night out with friends, a small smile on my lips for the first time in awhile.

 

_December 21st_

            Next morning, however, the elation faded.  As I looked around my empty apartment, I tried to take heart in having the day to myself.

            Nope.  Nothing but a pang of loneliness that refused to be ignored.

            (_If things had gone as planned, Harry and I would be practicing our vows right now, promising each other not to go too wild on our respective stag and hen nights, would be nervous and laughing and relying on each other for strength._)

            In ten days, nearly a hundred people would find themselves with nothing to do when they’d originally planned on watching their friends join in holy matrimony.  In ten days, caterers would NOT be serving finger sandwiches, Marietta’s Bakery would NOT be making a three-tiered wedding cake, Morgause’s would NOT be arranging ten bouquets.

            And I would not be getting married.

            I tried to distract myself by planning for the _Quibbler_ piece I’d volunteered to do on some Christmas spectacle Luna had promised would shock and amaze me.  (Possibly something having to do with flying reindeer?)

            That’s when I heard a knock on the door.  “Come in, it's not locked,” I said, thinking it was Luna or one of my brothers come to convince me to attend the Weasley Family Dinner after all. I heard the door open, and someone cleared their throat. 

            When I turned around, I saw, to my astonishment, pretty much the last face I wanted to see on the face of the Earth at that moment.

            Malfoy.

            “What do you want?” I demanded rudely.  “Why are you here?”

            “You told me to come in,” he drawled, elongating his vowels in typical Pureblood speech patterns.

            “Well you can turn right back around and march yourself outside,” I said, “There is nothing for you here.”

            “I’m here on behalf of your family, who is very concerned about your well-being,” he said robotically, as if reading off a script.

            “My family sent _you_?” I asked incredulously.  “What, they want to see me in Azkaban or something?  Why do they tempt me with _you_?”

            “The general consensus is that I caused the disruption in Weasley harmony, and so it falls to my lot to fix the matter.  I suppose it’s some sort of cruel and unusual initiation rite.”

            Ugh, the patronizing tone of the git.  It was all I could do not to punch him in the face.

            “And so I have been sent to make amends for stealing Harry’s heart.”

            “You tried.  You can leave now,” I said curtly.

            “I have been ordered not to return until I have your blessing,” Malfoy said, his voice unsure for the first time.

            “My … Who told you this?” I demanded.  “As if I would ever give my _blessing_ to you and that _piss-poor_ excuse of a _fiancé_ with his-”

            “I don’t know what you’re complaining about,” Malfoy scowled.  “You-”

            And that’s when the inevitable happened.  I let loose and punched him right in the face.  And _didn’t_ regret it, thank you very much.  It was very satisfying, and Hermione was right – Malfoy _does_ scream like a five-year old girl when hit.

            “You savage!” he shrieked. “What are you _doing_?”

            “Giving you what you deserve,” I said firmly, pretending like my knuckles didn’t hurt like all hell.

            “Okay, look, what the _hell_ is your problem?”

            “Are you _really_ asking me that?” I asked, my voice going up several octaves throughout the course of the sentence.  I advanced, poking his chest, until I had forced him out of the apartment and against the wall opposite my door.  “My _problem_ is that you were _sleeping_ with my fucking _fiancé_.”

            “It’s not like he _loves_ me or anything.  I’m just his _friend_ on the side.”  Malfoy’s eyes narrowed and he crossed his arms defensively.

            “_Excuse_ me?” I snarled.

            “I don’t understand why you’re so upset,” Malfoy hissed, composing himself.  “I guess it’s not terribly common among pleb- in your family, but the Pureblood families understand that marriage is a contract.  A husband and wife may love each other, but it’s common to have a little … _friend_ on the side.  Especially in instances like this when one party has _needs_ that the other cannot fulfill, it is customary to fulfill those needs elsewhere.  It’s not like they don’t _return_ to each other.”

            “Okay, while I _understand_ you inbred Pureblood _weirdoes_ have a different values system, _I do not_.  And Harry knew that.”  I tried breathing slowly to keep my simmering temper under control.  “I don’t _care_ if Harry had needs I couldn’t fulfill.  He chose to keep me in the dark, go behind my back, and commit sexual _infidelity_.  In my books, that is _unforgivable_.”

            “I understand you are hurt-”

            “Betrayed,” I corrected.

            “-but you have to understand that the one Harry loved- _loves_ is _you_.”

            I raised an eyebrow.

            “When you- when you walked in on us,” Malfoy said as diffidently as a Malfoy would ever get, “it was a pity-fuck.  He’d said it was going to be the last time, that we were through.  He was _going_ to choose _you_.”  He cleared his throat self-consciously.

            “He thought I would take him back after _that_?”

            “Well, obviously you walking in wasn’t part of the plan,” Malfoy said matter-of-factly, but his shifting weight gave him away.

            “Wasn’t part of _his_ plan,” I said shrewdly.  “But part of_ yours_.”

            “There’s no proof of that,” Malfoy said evenly.  “There is no way I could have arranged for you to walk in at that precise moment.”

            “There are many ways,” I corrected.  “But I want to know _why_.”

            “If, hypothetically, I had the opportunity to increase the probability of you walking in on an inopportune moment, it would be because I was through with the ruse.”

            I leaned against the doorframe and gestured for him to continue.

            “Your wedding is- _was_ set for January 1st.  I knew this.  And I knew that Harry was obviously not going to leave you for me, and that he was the type of guy to draw the line at continuing our relationship into the marriage himself.  If I wanted to ruin your relationship, I had a limited timeframe.”  Malfoy hesitated.  “I also wanted to hurt you.”

            “Why?”

            “You had the perfect life.  You had your family, you had the public’s adoring gaze, and more importantly, you had _Harry_.  And everyone was so invested in protecting you.  ‘We must not tell Ginny because it would hurt her so much.’  ‘If Ginny found out she would be so heartbroken.’  ‘Have you given any thought to how sad Ginny will be?’”  Malfoy smirked, more wryly this time.  “I suppose I kind of hated you, because so much of our relationship was spent dancing around you.  And I _knew _you could handle anything I threw at you, that you weren’t a fragile maiden, and I _wanted_ to hurt you the way no-one seemed to care about hurting me.”

            I lifted my chin.  “And so when you were smirking while Harry and I had our knock-down, drag-out fight, you were celebrating the fruits of your effort.”

            “What- no!”  Malfoy actually looked surprised.  “I wasn’t smirking.  Or celebrating.  I was terrified!  I didn’t know if you and Harry were going to make up, if I was going to end up the subject of wizarding tabloids, if all my plans had come to nothing!”

            “Like Harry and I could _possibly_ make up while your _dick_ was still up his ass.”

            “It’s been done,” Malfoy said coolly.  “In any case, I know that were the situations reversed, I would easily have forgiven him and could not be assured you would not do the same.  But,” his eyes narrowed, “either way, please do be assured that I cared not a whit for your feelings during the course of that day, and only for mine.”

            I drew in breath to deliver a blistering summation of what exactly I thought of _him_ so he could be assured the feeling was mutual, but gave it up.  There was no point.  “I suppose I should thank you then,” I said evenly, “for not underestimating me like everyone else in my acquaintance and for feeling I deserved the truth.”

            “Rest assured, I didn’t do it for _your_ sake,” Malfoy sneered.

            “Trust me, I wouldn’t assume it of you,” I said curtly.  “Is that all?”

            “I have been instructed by your terrifying mother not to leave until I have secured confirmation you will be attending the family dinner.”

            “Then you’ll be here for quite a while,” I said pleasantly, and made to close the door.

            Malfoy Vanished the door with his wand and I very narrowly restrained the urge to punch his arrogant face again.  “I’m afraid that won’t be possible,” he said.  “I have a date with Harry tonight.”  I knew he was watching me for a reaction, and I knew that my best efforts wouldn’t hide the pain and the fury that washed threw me, so I didn’t even try.  “I won’t be delayed.  What is this whole matter about, dignity?  You’re not coming because you can’t bear to sit across the table from Harry and me?”

            “No, I can’t,” I readily admitted.  “Not without failing to maintain a semblance of civility,” I said, matching his posh tone.

            “So you’re trying to _avoid_ us?” Malfoy provoked.

            “No!”  I glared.

            “Then you’ll be there?”

            “No,” I said evenly.  “I just explained-”

            “If you have enough pride to refuse to sit at the same table as us,” Malfoy interrupted, “you should have enough pride to show your family that we no longer affect you.  That you don’t care.  I should know.  The only currency my family deals with in anymore is pride.”

            Ah, yes, the ostentatious displays of Malfoy wealth that only ever sent them further spiraling into debt but that they felt obliged to keep up for appearance’s sake.

            “It’s not just about pride.  It’s about the fact that my family has accepted a _viper_ into our den.  I’m not keeping away just because of you.  I’m also mad at _them_.”

            “You say it’s not about pride, but it _is_,” Malfoy corrected.  “It’s about making a statement that you don’t approve.  So fine.  Disapprove all you like.  But if you stay at home, they’ll just say we drove you to this, just as they say we drove you to drink.”

            Malfoy always talked like a proper aristo.  He also knew how to push my buttons. 

            “Who says that?” I asked evenly.

             “Your family worries about you.  Harry … _pities_ you.”

            I bristled, even though I knew that was his intent.  “Pities me?” I repeated coolly.

            “He worries that it’s his fault you’ve become this way, that he’s ruined you,” Malfoy said, then paused.  “He still loves you.”

            “I don’t care,” I lied.

            “Well, _I do_,” Malfoy snapped.  “The two of you need to sit down and talk.  It’s affecting your friends.  It’s affecting your family.  And it’s affecting _me_.”

            “You expect-” I began, but he interrupted.

            “You don’t care about the _me_ portion, but for the sake of your mutual friends and family who are sick of being pulled back and forth and who have sent _me_ to talk to you which goes to show just how desperate they are, please _get some fucking closure already_.”

            “You are in no position to giving me _any _advice,” I hissed as I de-Vanished the door and slammed it shut.

            “Just talk to him!” Malfoy’s muffled voice came from the other side. 

            Fat chance.  I would be happy _never_ speaking to Harry again.

 

_Some Time Later: _

            “How’s your hot chocolate?”

            I looked up to see the bartender—Nate—smile at me.  “It’s just what I need in this weather,” I said, nodding to the window where the weather had warmed up just enough for the snow flurries of the last few days to melt into dreary sleet.

            “Glad to see you’re not ordering alcohol today,” he remarked.

            I would have bristled at the implications from anyone else, but this man had held my hair back while I threw up when we’d been complete strangers, even _if_ that had been a paid favor to my brother.  “Nope, nothing but hot chocolate for me,” I smiled wanly.

            Something caught my eye as it flipped in the air – a key that Nate caught and then slid across the bar toward me.  “Your brother gave me your spare key a while back, but since you haven’t been a regular for a few months now, I thought you might want it back.”

            I considered, then slid it across the table back at him.  “No, you keep it for now.  Who knows how this meeting is going to go …”

            “Meeting?” Nate raised an eyebrow.

            Bells tinkled as a new customer stamped his way in, and my attention was caught – I looked up to the door to see rumpled black hair, eyes a brilliant green that still made me breathless, and that familiar scar almost invisibly white nowadays.  I ignored the whispers that started up around the bar as he scanned the crowd, so my full attention was on him when his face lit up at finding me.

            The pain at seeing him again for the first time in so long caught my breath. 

            “Ginny?” he said hesitantly, as he approached.

            I could feel Nate turning his attention back to wiping down the tables, too good a bartender to get involved in his patrons’ drama.  I only had eyes for Harry, though – I couldn’t help but genuinely smile upon seeing him, my body missing the warmth of his embrace, my skin missing the caress of his calloused fingers, and my heart missing the surety of his love.  At my smile, his face beamed with relief.

            This was the man I unfortunately still loved.

            “Oh, Harry,” I sighed, then patted the barstool next to mine.  “Come sit down.”  And maybe, my heart skipped one beat instead of two when he got that goofy grin on his face.  And maybe, I wasn’t even tempted to linger as he pressed past me to his seat.  And maybe, my heart ached a little less than usual when I looked him in the eyes.

            Because I was slowly, but surely, learning to fall out of love with him.

 

_The End_

**Author's Note:**

> This is a very much revised and hopefully less clunky version of "Christmas Woes," written for emi_hime Christmas of 2005. I feel compelled by modesty to list all the things that I still think are wrong with it, but I don't think you really care.


End file.
